


Catch Me If You Can't

by Attic_Nights



Series: Kisses Collected Across the Alternate 'verses [2]
Category: Psych
Genre: AU, All The Tropes, Alternate Universe, Background Relationships, Coffee Shops, Infidelity, M/M, Pre-Series, and lassiter is in his late 20's, art thieves, masquerades, political sabotage, so shawn's just north of 20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attic_Nights/pseuds/Attic_Nights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1998, and the place is Seattle, Washington, USA. Shawn Spencer is Pierre Despereaux’s partner in crime. Assigned their case is the up and coming Detective Carlton Lassiter, on loan from the SBPD. </p><p>Alternatively, a story about coffee, intrigue, and the color yellow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me If You Can't

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: This has been sitting half-finished on my computer for yonks, but I was inspired to finish it for Shassie Week's Day 5 prompt: Alternate Universe. 
> 
> Unbetaed. I might come back and edit this later since I am dissatisfied with the start. And possibly the middle. And maybe even the end. Okay, fine, the whole thing. It's also possibly part of a series, one which will not be complete any time soon, but is quite workable as a standalone.
> 
> Psych, of course, belongs to Steve Franks and the good folks at... whatever glorious American channel it is.

Carlton hated petrichor.

He hated the metallic smell of rain as it hit the Seattle pavement in dark, dirty puddles. The wet-dog smell as it hit woolen jackets, as it dried half-heartedly in his hair. He hated when the rain drove hard into the bitumen and rebounded onto already soaked trousers. Not for the first time, he longed for the warm weather of his hometown Santa Barbara. In the rain, people got miserable and the chances for accidents and collisions rose exponentially. The thing about rain though, is that it has the power to change absolutely everything.

He ran through the deluge, shoes sloshing, coat turned up against the wind and umbrella utterly useless. A warm steady light glowed from a café and he ran towards it, feeling rather like a moth to a tungsten light bulb. He dashed inside the fluorescent, heated establishment, and stood, simply dripping on the threshold for a few moments, before he closed his umbrella and dragged his hand through his wavy hair. He would need to have it cut soon, if at least to prevent the high humidity from making it revert to the curls of his childhood.

Breathing in the heated air, he looked around him. It was a simple café with teak tables, a few patrons and at least two exits. Three, if he were to shoot out a window. He strode up to the counter and placed an order. The cashier was young, her strawberry blonde hair up in a chignon and the smile on her face nauseating. He bit out his name and slumped down at a free table with a newspaper.

He’d barely dragged his eyes past the headings when a porcelain cup and saucer floated down and landed with a soft _clink_.

“Coffee with four sugars and three creams—heart attack purely optional—for one Lassie,” said a waiter brightly.

Carlton glared at him, frowning. “It’s Lassiter.”

The young man (a kid, really) smiled even more brightly at his consternation. He wanted to be angry, but the smile seemed genuine—innocent, something he had not seen for a while in this town—and his treacherous body ended up settling for annoyed flush.

“Let me know if you’d like anything else, Detective.”

He grunted and turned back to the paper.

> **Yin Gang To Blame for Dead Head Detective**
> 
> _by Chloe Kipiani_
> 
> The death of the eminent Head Detective Chris Keogh has irrefutable links
> 
> to the notorious Yin Gang. The indefatigable police officer, 42, was found
> 
> dead in his sixth-floor apartment late last night. “At this point in time we’re
> 
> ruling this as an accidental death,” claims Chief of Police Robert Rodriguez.
> 
> “We are currently attempting to contact his family.” Keogh was to testify
> 
> against Yin Gang member Gabriel Sandoz later this week.

A sandwich appeared on the table. He looked up and saw the kid again.

“What’s this?”

“Turkey and cranberry sauce cuddled together by two slices of sourdough. It’s Thanksgiving in a sandwich.”

“I didn’t order this,” he said slowly.

“On the house,” shrugged the waiter. His head was cocked, floppy brown hair falling to one side. “Hey, is that the same thing that happened in Delaware? Wow, I never noticed how fun that word is to say. Delaware!”

“Delaware?”

“Delaware!”

“What about Delaware?” he snapped.

The kid made a non committal noise and waved his hand at the paper. “The police chief died there in an ‘accident’. The Yin Gang is there as well. Similar things in Florida, Detroit. Dude, it’s like the finale in The Godfather where Don Corleone wipes out his enemies in one fell swoop.”

“Do you have inside information?” he asked, dropping into interrogation mode.

“I swear by Val Kilmer as Batman, I don’t,” the man said, shrugging, picking up Carlton’s empty cup. “Just see things, Lassie.”

“What’s your name?” he asked as the young man turned away.

The kid paused, then looked back at him, considering. “You can call me Spencer. Or TT Spenstar, with an extra T for extra Talent.”

Carlton grunted and turned back to his paper.

It was only later he realized he had no idea how Spencer knew he was an officer.

 

* * *

 

“Not inviting me in the crime scene is one thing, but you can’t tell me to not work on it at all!”

He’d bounced in slightly late that morning only to find his case load had been removed almost entirely, aside from traffic violations, with strict instructions to see Rodriguez at midday. Yesterday had been his day off, and of course, it had to be when the Head Detective kicked it. Was this lighter load a punishment? So here he was, well before noon, confronting Chief Rodriguez in his office.

“You can’t take Keogh away from me, Chief,” he insisted.

The Chief merely looked at him with well-worn eyes and a placating eyebrow.

“On the contrary, Lassiter. I can, and am. Be civil now-- I’ve got you your own assignment. Something more fitting your level of expertise.”

Carlton’s jaw clicked shut, but he opened the proffered file. The first page was a plain A4 with only a single line of text on it, capital letters, serif font.

“Pee-air Despereee-au-ux?” he read.

“Professional thief, never been caught. His crimes of art theft are always, well, works of art themselves. He’s staying at The Four Seasons hotel, arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“If he’s wanted why don’t I arrest him now?” He should be working on Keogh’s death; it was his _job_. A burglary case was petty in comparison, a whisker better than uniform duty.

“Despereaux’s not wanted in this country, at least not yet. He’s more of a... Person of Interest. I want you to tail him and report back. Become an expert on him. As you know, this city is celebrating its Impressionist Art Festival this month. We can’t afford bad publicity.”

“What about the gang connection?” he persisted, remembering what he had been told in the café.

“With Keogh?” Rodriguez frowned. “I assure you we are looking at every angle, but preliminary reports are all saying suicide. That gang theory is just some crackpot local journalist trying to get her break. Trust me, I’ve had to field calls from the media all morning.”

“What about Delaware? There has to be a connection, the crimes are almost identical.”

“How--? I assure you, Carlton, we have our best men on it. Now, go home and prepare yourself for a stakeout as soon as you are able. No point staying here for some traffic violations.”

 

* * *

 

The clouds hung heavy and gray as he found his way back to the same café as that morning, but thankfully, the heavens remained unopened. Spencer was working at the till now, and he greetied him loudly as he walked through the door. He resisted the urge to flinch at the undeserving attention.

“Lassie! Didn’t go for a swim this time?”

He ignored the comment and ordered a coffee to go. “Black,” he added.

“Like your men?”

“Grow up.”

“Oh, I’m never growing up,” said Spencer with a boyish grin and a flick of his hair. He was definitely playing it up. “So, got something planned?”

“Stakeout.” Spencer did not seem surprised by this admission, and disappeared behind the spluttering and grinding coffee machine, out of earshot.

Swiftly, Carlton pulled aside the strawberry blonde that had originally served him and asked if she knew if Spencer had any criminal connections.

The girl looked confused, eyes squinting. “Who, him? He’s a good kid.”

“How did he know I was a detective?” he asked, voice low.

To his surprise, she grinned. “Oh, he’s psychic! A real seer!” she said, as if that explained everything.

He couldn’t push further. Spencer came over with his order, humming _Bad Boys_. He was surprised when Spencer made to give him a large thermos and sandwich instead of his coffee.

“I didn’t order this.”

“We’re having a special for customers with blue eyes that can be dived into.”

Spencer handed him the thermos and bagged sandwich. Their fingers brushed during the exchange and Carlton jerked his hand and purchase away. The kid’s cheeks were slightly rosy as he gave his extravagant and wholesomely unnecessary farewells.

In what could almost become routine, he grunted in acknowledgment and left, but not without a churning, restless feeling in his gut.

 

* * *

 

The next morning he arrived at the station utterly exhausted, a dead weight residing deep in his bones. Despereaux's stakeout had been long, dull and tiring. He had also spent the past couple of precious morning hours watching the Frenchman play tourist, before finally abandoning him in what seemed the millionth tourist shop that morning. _Oh god,_ ran through his head as he scrubbed his face. He had had so much coffee he was still getting residual twitches. At least he had some photos to add to his report.

He felt gritty, but it was not like anyone would notice him coming into the station with the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. He dropped the negatives off for developing before heading home to shower, change, and feel more human – order negotiable.

Home.

A quick kiss to Victoria later, he shuffled into the shower, forcing his mind blank. After a while under the hot stream of water, he felt his eyelids droop and he turned off the faucet. Quickly changing into fresh clothes, he investigated the warm, bacon scent wafting like heaven from the kitchen.

His face broke into a small smile as a freshly cooked breakfast greeted him.

“You,” he announced, wrapping his arms around his wife from behind, “are astounding.”

“Come home early tonight?” she smiled as he nuzzled her neck.

He hummed.

“I might have some sort of… incentive to get you actually in bed tonight,” she said wryly.

“Motivation,” he agreed. “I’ll try my very best.”

He melted away from his wife and started tucking into his eggs.

“Just don’t fall asleep at your desk again,” she warned, only half teasing. Then she sat down across from him, fiddling with the tablecloth. “You know, there’s another reason why I _want_ you tonight.”

“Oh?” he said around a mouthful of sausage.

“You know how Daddy wanted to do the renovations at home by himself? Well the old coot slipped and fractured his hip yesterday afternoon.”

“Hospital?” He was not too sure on how this came into the whole ‘wanting’ thing.

“Well yes, but I want to visit him, give some support. You know. So I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“When are you leaving?” he asked, frowning.

“Tomorrow morning.” He swallowed his last mouthful.

“Santa Barbara must be getting sick of the sight of you. You were there last fortnight, too.”

She shot him a look, which appeared to say: _I am going to ignore your foot-in-mouth syndrome since I am a good, patient and long-suffering person._ “Can’t help family crises,” she commented aloud.

He wished her a good day and kissed her goodbye, feeling strangely bereft.

 

* * *

 

By the time he got back to work, the photos were developed and he sifted through them, refreshing his memory.

He had been situated on the roof of an opposite building, a dark tarp thrown over him for camouflage. Despereaux was in the penthouse suite at The Four Seasons, top floor, which happened to be a floor higher than his own building. As such, the angle had been slightly awkward, but still doable. To make things more awkward though, where there were curtains or blinds on a window, Despereaux had drawn them. Thankfully, the French doors were curtain-less — literally a window of opportunity.

He had started his stakeout at 4pm, thermos in one hand and BLT in the other. Behind him, a small bag of additional non-perishables Victoria had packed with him.

Hours 1600 to 1700 were uneventful: no one home at all, nor had there been any clue as to the Frenchman’s whereabouts beforehand; short of issuing a BOLO on the hired BMW, this was to be expected. He had had a brief but fruitless conversation with the concierge on Despereaux’s whereabouts before setting up surveillance.

A picture taken at 1732 was more promising: a small flicker of movement as a black briefcase flung carelessly into view. Weirdly enough, so was what looked like the leafy part of a pineapple. It sat there, slightly shadowed and utterly incongruous in the frame. He made a note of it in his report.

Date stamped 1805 and onwards, this next set saw Despereaux mix a drink (martini, he bet), and nurse it on the balcony overlooking the city. In the photographs, he had a distinctly pensive look on his face, brows drawn and eyes searching.

He remembered getting the distinct sense he was by those eyes, but it had been too fleeting to be more than a hunch. He had been too well hidden, for one.

The majority of photos were useless. Anything incriminating or enlightening, in behavior or objects, were never in sight. At dinner, Despereaux had ordered room service—an extravagant spread, complete with champagne and strawberries. Almost thankfully, he had eaten it out of view. Occasionally, he caught a cast shadow on a curtain— male, holding an item of clothing, a martini glass, or speaking on a cellular phone.

Finally, he got to _the_ photograph. He grinned to himself. It had almost been luck. The smallest bit of movement in the early hours of the morning and he had caught it. The briefest encounter before the shapes blended back into the abyss. Peering at the photo, he looked at the back of Despereaux clad in pinstripe pajamas moving very nearly out of sight, hair sleep mussed. At the time, he had wondered at that, since the lights had been on since early evening; someone had clearly been at work, or at the very least awake.

There was a second figure in the photograph. It was not complete, mostly obscured by Despereaux; someone pulled into an embrace, and fortuitously, into shot. He had not been sure at the time, but the figure was definitely corporeal-- not a shadow or a trick of the light.

He could make out dark hair and a hand. Of course, he could not be completely sure, but it looked male.

Oh yes, this was definitely something _big._ He just had to find out how it was big. Why. And most importantly, who?

He spent the next few hours poring over all the material he could find on Despereaux. He requested faxed files from international departments and even purloined the computer room for research. At 2pm, he took his lunch break and walked to Spencer’s café.

“Lassie came home!”

“The usual to go,” he ordered, hoping it wasn't too soon to have a 'usual'. He looked up and frowned at Spencer - the kid seemed slightly flustered.

As Spencer disappeared to make his order, he waited, eyeing the displayed carrot cake, thinking fondly back to the last time he had had one. It had been at Lulu’s 16th last year. He had gifted her an industrial sized mace.

“Have you seen today’s paper?” Shawn asked, tapping at the stack on the counter. 

> **REPORTER SLAUGHTER**
> 
> _by Charles Dinnigan_ **  
> **
> 
> Shocked colleagues found valued reporter Chloe Kipiani hanged this morning in the
> 
> Seattle Courier headquarters. Police believe that the presence of a suicide note at the
> 
> scene, written on the back of her last article, means that the death of Kipiani, 22, was
> 
> self inflicted. “CK was a great reporter, someone we could look up to. This is a tragedy
> 
> and impacts our community in –”

He frowned. “Wasn’t she the one with the crackpot gang theory?”

“There’s a gang of crock pots? Well, I certainly didn’t see that one coming,” Spencer sighed, sounding put out. “This means I better watch the whisks in the kitchen too. They’re plotting something. Never trust pointy things, Lassie.”

Spencer handed him his travel cup of coffee, along with a brown paper bag of something. He did not ask, but his lips quirked into a small smile as he left.

“Don’t sleep at the station, Lassie!” called Spencer.

 _Victoria, crap!_ He checked his watch; it was nearly three. He had a few hours before he needed to get home. Sighing, he looked at his Styrofoam cup. Spencer had written “x Lassiepants x” with a massive smiley face. He peeked in the paper bag and felt no surprise, only warmth, when he saw the carrot cake.

If he was smiling for the rest of the walk back to the station-- well, that was just because the sun was beginning to shine and lift away the petrichor.

Two hours later, Carlton could swear he was seeing things. Witness reports and newspaper clippings. Translation dictionaries mocked him and the computer screen glared down at him. He was looking for mentions of someone with dark hair. Unfortunately, people did not tend to mention hair colors of witnesses. They should. As inevitable police chief, he was going to make that his second rule, after the mandatory issuing of good coffee. He would be a generous Chief, after all.

A French report from Cannes had a witness by the name of Jean Couture du Voltaire, “ _avec_ _cheveux bruns_ ”, etc. Translation: brown hair, early 20s, an American who worked as a sailing instructor. The statement was very convoluted, possibly referring to an escape, Robert Redford, or hijacked boat or jump, entirely in colloquial French.

In Bruges, a Flemish newspaper interviewed an American chocolate chef. It did not mention hair color or a name, but the obscure movie references felt familiar.

He clicked on a Dutch newspaper, the spread slowly loading. A photo of the crime scene revealed a crowd of people and he scanned them. A familiar dark head stood out, back to camera, holding a strange, guitar-looking instrument.

A police report from Edinburgh listed a ‘Mario Buttersnaps Martelli’ as a witness who claimed Despereaux escaped Edinburgh Castle by flying. He was listed as a pizza chef down at the Haymarket.

A report from Mexico City interviewed ‘Emilio Estevez Etht-eh-vez’, who claimed he was selling Mexican Jumping Beans when Despereaux had walked past him, a Picasso in hand.

Nothing tangible linked the reports more a hunch. Ridiculous names and professions, pop culture and the occasional mention of brown hair, did not make a solid case. He needed evidence, good solid leads from which to build his case. Something was not sitting right either.

He sighed, seeing the time nearing 6pm. _Victoria_. He shook his head wearily.

Everything about Despereaux’s crimes was perfect. He got in and out of a scene undetected, and since first popping up nearly three years ago had successfully evaded police worldwide. Patterned to a fault, he always stole multiple works from multiple locations in a single area before moving on. His crimes were always complete within a week. He never tripped an alarm or left prints. He did leave a signature—a smoldering _Merchanteuse Blonde_ cigarette.

Infuriatingly, not every place Despereaux hit had a reference to the mystery man. It was as if he was stalking a shadow. Carlton was going to need more evidence. And, he still needed to scout around for areas likely to be hit by Despereaux.

With a sigh, he packed up and turned off the computer.

 

* * *

 

On the list of things Carlton Lassiter expected upon arriving home that evening, Pierre Despereaux lounging on his couch was not one of them.

“Hey sweetie,” called Victoria, voice carrying from their bedroom.

“Victoria,” he answered. He went over to the couch and peered at its occupant, wondering if he was seeing things. He blinked a couple of times at the blond man and scowled. “How was your day, honey?”

“Not bad, knocked off a bit late, setting things up for the temp. Don’t forget to say hi to your charming friend!”

“Friend?” he asked, voice slightly raised. Pierre just smirked up at him, dark blue eyes assessing. Carlton assessed right back.

“He says he knows you from Santa Barbara,” Victoria said as she came in. A quick kiss on his cheek and then she was off. “Can I get you anything, Pierre?”

“Scotch on the rocks if you have it, Mrs. Lassiter,” answered a ridiculously posh accent. “Can I assist you at all? Carlton, dear chap, what will you have?”

Victoria popped back into the room, blushing, and Carlton clenched his jaw. “A few moments, dear,” he ground out. She disappeared back to the study. That was where he stashed his Glenfidditch. Bastard.

Pierre merely sighed, looking vaguely disappointed. “Since I’ve taken the time to find you, please don’t spoil it with rudeness.”

“What are you doing here, Despereaux?”

“I am here about a friend, actually.”

“You have ten seconds then I’m slapping on the cuffs.”

“On what charge, detective? I have done nothing wrong, nor am I trespassing. Your lovely wife let me in.” Again, the man smirked.

Victoria sashayed back in with Despereaux’s drink and then left them alone. A few seconds of silence trickled by wherein the blond took a sip and considered the liquid with a put-upon look on his measured features.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” the Frenchman said, then sighed, leaning forward and gesturing to a chair. “My dear fellow, won’t you sit? I’m sure you’re tired after staking us out last night. And this morning.”

“Are you threatening me?” he hissed. He kept his voice down in case the man was dangerous. His own weapon was in reach, but he did not want to involve Victoria in the grittier aspects of his job, like blood splatter analysis. Head shots were messy. They had just fixed the wet rot on that wall, too.

“Hardly, my good man. Think of this as a bargain. Nothing which will rub uncomfortably against your moral constitution, I swear it.”

“I’m not interested. You have five seconds to get out.”

“Won’t you hear me out first? I am willing to tell you what I’ll _do_. I will even answer some questions, providing they are the _right_ kind of questions. In exchange, I ask only that you to not pursue Shawn.”

“Shawn? Is that the man’s name?”

A flicker of confusion crossed the handsome face. “I apologize. I was under the impression that you recognized him. You have met him—grand theft auto, or something along those lines.” The voice now sounded amused. At what, he wasn’t too sure. Probably at his expense. He quickly thought back to those he had arrested; unfortunately, he’d arrested a _lot_ of people. “We figured it was only a matter of time before you made the connection.”

“Why would I even consider a bargain from you?”

“Because Shawn is innocent. At most, he’s an accessory... but I could get rich on the amount of times he’s told me I could do better.”

“If he’s not your partner, then what is he?”

Despereaux grinned, shark-like. “He’s my partner.”

Carlton sat down, trying not to let the frustration show on his face.

“What I mean to say,” Despereaux continued, looking seriously into his glass, “is that he is my lover. We met, had a connection, and we’ve been running about quite happily for some time now. We’re good for each other. Nothing more-- at least, not in the business sense.”

Carlton did not believe him. He told the Frenchman so.

“Whether you do or don’t is immaterial to my proposal. Will you take it? My offer is this: promise me peace of mind in matters regarding Shawn and in return I’ll give you some clues regarding what I’ll be up to here in this here city. If you catch me, Detective, it might even warrant a promotion. But of course, you won’t.”

A manicured hand stretched out, challenge apparent, and Carlton eyed it with deep-seated suspicion. He took it, hating himself.

“Very good, Detective,” praised Despereaux lightly. “Now, as promised.” The man got out a business card and a fountain pen. “First, I am going to a dance class, a rather _avant garde_ affair, I’m afraid. A trip into the country might be nice too, since I love the way the evening light hits the haystacks. Then, I’ll take my partner out for a picnic, and perhaps some fine dining too.”

The blond handed over the card. On it was written:

> Dance
> 
> Haystacks
> 
> Picnic

The card itself was blank aside from an embossed pineapple.

“And this is supposed to help me in my investigation?”

“You tell me, Detective. Now, I really must dash. Thank your lovely wife for the hospitality for me, will you? I can see myself out.” He moved to get up.

“What about my questions?” Despereaux raised an eyebrow and smoothed out his charcoal blazer. “You said I could ask you some questions.”

“Which you have already done.” He smiled, shark-like. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He watched Despereaux leave. As the art thief got into his BMW and drove off, Carlton could not help but feel he’d somehow taken a trip down the rabbit hole. Shaking his head, he found Victoria hanging up the phone.

“I’ve ordered Chinese,” she said. “Honey soy chicken and Szechuan lamb okay?”

He nodded vaguely and went to the liquor cabinet to pour himself a healthy drink.

 

* * *

 

He felt embarrassed filling out his report, but, well, things must be done by the book. It was something that had been drilled into him at the academy, and he had no intention of stopping now for the sake of an oily art thief and his mystery partner. He only hoped no one would look too closely and discover the rookie detective had made a deal with a criminal. It was something he barely believed himself, and had slept uneasily last night.

That day he kissed his wife goodbye to a foreboding sky, her kiss worrying his lips as he liaised with the art galleries. Most were helpful, filling him in on security protocols, but most were also offended by any insinuation that they could be broken into.

Each also had opinions on what Despereaux’s clues meant. One insisted ‘Picnic’ was Manet’s _The Luncheon on the Grass_ , another that it was Seurat’s behemoth _A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte._   Most though agreed that ‘Dance’ referred to one of the three Degas paintings currently on display around the city: _The Dance Class II, Dancers Bending Down (The Ballerinas_ ), or _Yellow Ballerina._ There was, however, a school of thought that believed it referred to Toulouse-Lautrec’s _Im Moulin Rouge, Zwei tanzende Frauen_ , on display at the Seattle Art Museum. ‘Haystacks’ was almost unanimously declared as Monet’s eponymous series of works (in which the artist, as the curators painstakingly explained, attempted to capture _plein air)_ , also at the SAM.

All this legwork and paperwork was exhausting. He really needed a partner for this.

Having recommended to the galleries that they beefed up their security around those paintings, Carlton punched in a few phone calls to his contacts in an attempt to track Despereaux’s official movements.

“Pierre Despereaux?” queried Claire from _Save the Whales_ , or whatever pansy thing she was attached to nowadays.

“Yes. Or an artist pseudonym. Like Edgar Monet, or something.”

“We’re even now, Carlton. One Pierre Despereaux has RSVP’ed to the annual _Cuddle the Seals_ masquerade ball at City Hall tonight.”

“Can you get me in?”

“Can Pavarotti sing?”

 

* * *

 

Carlton smoothed down the dinner jacket of his hired tux, straightened his bow tie, and pushed down the thought of Rodriguez’s face when he read his expense report. He watched the masquerade from his vantage point on the second floor balcony, searching for Despereaux’s dishwater blond head amongst the milling benefactors. As he looked about the kaleidoscope of upper class, he felt out of depth, wishing not for the first time that Victoria could be there. At least then, she could berate him for his stupid mask and oil him through the room with all the ease of someone who grew up like this. Carlton’s world was one of grit and steel, not of money and corruption.

A commotion caught his eye in the west side of the hall and the crowds rippled apart. His untouched champagne glass slipped in his grasp. Two men created space around them on the dance floor as they whirled in a waltz. Their movements were elegant — each step they made embraced by the swelling music — but it was not superfluous in any way; a simple, rotating box pattern adorned only by the swirling of their jackets. He could appreciate their style in that way, nothing overtly fancy but practical and smooth like chrome and gunmetal. Leading the pair was undeniably Despereaux’s fair head and confident steps, his partner a smaller masked brunet.

He overheard a couple of old biddies beside him scoffing at such a flagrant display of homosexuality, doubtlessly clutching their pearls too, but his fixed attention was on the shorter partner. Less focused and practiced was his dance, but he moved like quicksilver in the golden hall. The mask and distance obscured his features, however, and he watched the pair sway around for a minute before deciding to get a closer look. As he made his way down the red-carpeted stairs though, a polite yet stilted applause rung out. He skipped the last three stairs, landing with a smack on the marble, only to see Despereaux melt away into the crowds. His partner… his partner though slipped away from the crowds and through a service door.

With his heart thudding in anticipation, Carlton followed the accomplice into a darkened hall, lit only by a few yellowed lamps. He paused. From the ground, the accomplice picked up a silver tray of champagne flutes and pivoted back towards where Carlton stood.

“Police! Stop right there.”

The man stopped, head cocked. “Lassie?”

Carlton’s mind swirled as he placed the voice. _Oh_. “Spencer?” The dorky kid from the café. He brushed his fingers over his concealed badge, drawing comfort from it. Spencer was just a kid. A stupid, kid with an innocent face. What was a kid doing with an art thief? Instead, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a waiter for _Cuddles_ , sometimes. Selling carrot cake alone can’t keep me looking this fine.”

“How… how do you know Despereaux?” The kid blinked at him guilelessly.

“You mean the Dread Pirate Roberts who just took me for a spin?” The tray of champagne swapped onto the kid’s right arm.

“Dread Pirate-- ?”

“Yeah.” Spencer shrugged, stepping forward into the nicotine light. His familiar features illuminated in a play of shadow and light under his mask. “I’m not in any trouble, am I? Two dudes dancing… I know this is a conservative place but surely, this isn’t _Maurice_. Dude just appeared here, grabbed me by the elbow as I went to give him a glass, and asked if I wanted to make a scene. To which, the answer is always ‘ _shyeah_!’”

A distraction.

A bloody distraction.

“Come with me.” He dashed outside into the main hall, hearing the sound of glass smashing behind him. He spun around, but Despereaux had vanished.

“This way,” he urged, impatiently grabbing Spencer by the wrist and dragging him into the foyer.

“Wh… Lassie!”

Flashing his badge at the maitre d’ he used their phone to ring the closest gallery, which, according to his notes, housed Degas’ _Yellow Ballerina_.

“Security,” answered a bored voice on the other end of the phone line.

“This is Detective Lassiter from the SPD. I want you to go to your impressionist section and see if anything has been stolen.”

Spencer hopped restlessly about. “Dude I need to get back to my job…”

Carlton glared at him. “Sit. Stay. I’ll need your statement.”

Finally, the other end crackled to life, the sounds of heavy, slightly asthmatic breathing weighing down the line. “It’s gone! The Degas, it’s gone!”

Before he'd left, he'd confirmed with the galleries their status. He checked his watch - there was no time for Despereaux to have commuted, stolen and escaped. No, he played distraction, using Spencer as a diversion while the real brown-haired accomplice stole the artwork.

Sweet Lady of Justice.

 

 

* * *

 

“How’s the Keogh case going, Lassiepants?”

“Not my case,” he grunted, eyes flickering to the window as he waited for his coffee to go.

“I lost my job last night. Presumably, I’m now barred from all future _Cuddle the Seals_ functions. Thanks, by the way.”

Oh. He turned to look at Spencer. “I didn’t know.” In actuality, it had not crossed his mind what might have happened to the kid after he had his statement down. That night and the subsequent morning had been hectic, scuttling in the ruins of Despereaux’s treachery.

Spencer shrugged. “You can make it up to me.”

“How?” he asked, wary.

“I was wondering if you’d be the Thelma to my Louise and paint the town red. Or, any color, I’m not overly picky.” Spencer paused to bend over and retrieve a chocolate cupcake that Carlton definitely did not ask for, but looked tempting nonetheless. “Yellow’s underrated and Big Bird does wear yellow well. Then again, it is a truth universally acknowledged that even though Clint Eastwood can pull off a poncho doesn’t mean anyone else should pull one on. So tell me, does yellow go with your complexion?”

He blinked. “Did you just ask me out?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, I’m, ah, flattered but…” he trailed off, unsure of how to proceed.

“Married, I know,” he said with a rueful smile.

He shot the kid a questioning look. All he got as a response was a finger to temple and a sly grin.

He brushed aside the niggling feeling of recognition. It had been so long since someone had flirted with him, he felt a little off kilter.

“I thought we could go to the _Haystack_.”

Carlton looked up at Spencer sharply. “Haystack? There wouldn’t be any art there, would there?”

“Uh, there might be? They have a western theme though, but if you turn up in a poncho I _will_ ignore you.” Spencer took his time writing on Carlton’s takeaway cup. “Hey, isn’t there some sort of art festival going on? Funny, I hadn’t picked you as an art hound, Lassie. But I am totally fine with going around and glancing at some paint splatters if you’re there.”

He waited patiently until Spencer’s mouth stopped moving. “This _Haystack,_ where is it?”

“Meet me here at eight and I’ll show you.”

 

* * *

 

As soon as he got home, he looked up yellow pages and found the club’s address. He did not mean to lead Spencer on like that, but he figured standing the guy up ought to send the right message. It was a little past eight as it was, the hours having slipped by trying to chase Despereaux, who had seemingly vanished. Rodriguez had told him to ease off the case, believing it was likely that Despereaux had head to the hills. He had also ordered Carlton take tomorrow morning off—an order he was expected to defy. Still, Carlton’s gut told him the coiffed snake remained in Seattle, poised to strike again.

He slid out of his suit and into his well-worn leather jacket and jeans, the ones he usually wore when on his motorcycle, and flung his trench coat on top for rain protection. He clipped his badge to his belt and double-checked the ammo in his gun on the off chance he came across either Despereaux or his accomplice.

It was long shot, he knew that, but while Monet’s works were being diligently supervised there was little more he could do. He could scout the area around the bar, and if nothing turned up, he could treat himself a drink. Heavens knows he needed one.

 

* * *

 

The night was slick black and stark yellow as the wet roads mirrored the streetlights. Carlton paid the taxi driver and looked at the _Haystack._ It seemed inviting— well-lit but not overly so, music not too loud and the sound of laughter echoed into the street. Then, in the dark shadows outside the watering hole, he saw a dark head and familiar body. _This was it_ , he thought. However, the head turned around and he could have groaned. It was only Spencer, wet hair slicked back from his face.

“I thought I said to meet me at the café, silly.”

Carlton breathed deeply and walked past Spencer, through the pub doors. The air inside was warm and yeasty, almost sticky. He looked around, finding two points of entry. Above the bar was a postcard print of Monet’s _Haystacks,_ wedged between Eli Wallach and Robert Vaughn. The whole place was adorned with Spaghetti Western heroes; Clint Eastwood, thankfully, held a prominent position. He ordered a double scotch and sat underneath Clint, able to see both exits.

“You waiting for someone?” Spencer asked almost flippantly, suddenly sitting opposite him, a fruity cocktail in his mitts. An awkward feeling washed over him, making him feel hot. He downed a third of his scotch before he realized it.

“Am I?”

He felt a hand come to rest on his thigh. It wasn’t intrusive, just rested with warm, heavy heat on his quads. It could easily have been a friend grasping his leg after a good joke. He swallowed, unsure of the protocol in these situations. And whether he wanted to follow it.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” asked Spencer, the question paired with a feral grin.

“I’m married, kid.”

“And I’m taken. And, I notice you didn’t say ‘straight’, either.” Carlton shifted as the hand moved perceptibly higher. “I think, like me, you like a connection. I think you crave to be reminded what it’s like to be alive.”

“Don’t toy with me,” he growled.

The hand retreated to his knee, and Carlton tried to feel relieved. Instead, he took the opportunity to unbutton his coat and jacket, the air stifling. Didn’t the place know how to use the climate control?

The pair was silent for a few minutes, nursing their beverages. To Carlton’s surprise, he began to relax for the first time in days, the whiskey warming the confines of his chest. He watched the other man focus on folding a napkin into a bird, expression indeterminable.

Spencer drained his glass, lips sugar-rimmed. “No one’s coming. ‘Fraid it’s just me.”

Carlton knocked back his drink in agreement. Spencer met his gaze and offered: “Change of scenery?”

Carlton found himself outside. The night was misty with fine, crystalline rain, the air tinted orange by the streetlights. His wrist was suddenly grabbed, cold fingers resting around his pulse point, pulling him across the road. The kid let go and jumped on a bench, arms outstretched.

“Come on, enjoy the rain!”

“You look ridiculous.”

A car raced by, splashing Carlton with puddle water. “Urgh!” He shuddered in disgust.

“Now _you_ look ridiculous!” Spencer was laughing, loud and genuine.

Spencer raised his foot onto the back of the bench, shouting and flailing when it unbalanced, toppling him and it into a wet bush. Carlton felt a laugh bubble up in his chest. Before he thought any better of it, he walked over and helped the kid up.

The moment froze. They were leaning in each other’s space now, smiles flickering in the misting of their breath. Carlton looked into Spencer’s wide, confused eyes, his hand sliding of its own accord to brush the soaked bangs from searching eyes. He watched Spencer’s throat bob, his own throat parched. The kid’s mouth opened, then shut in an abortive movement, and then opened again.

“You know, I think I might like you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. When I first saw you, wet, bedraggled, smelling like guns and wet dogs… I think I felt something.”

“This is… sappier than my wife’s bridal shower. You done?”

“Yeah, I get it, no more chick flick moments.” Spencer smiled, Carlton smiled back, and closed the distance between their lips.

 

He grasped around for something, begging his mind to cooperate. For something that told him why he invited home the kid from the café. Why he was leading him into his bedroom.

Why there was skin like satin under his hands, a firm body molding into his own like he owned it. Why he tasted of pineapple. Why it felt so familiar and right.

“Don’t close your eyes,” whispered Spencer as he hovered over him, eyes glinting in the dark.

He ground up against the younger man, suddenly aware it was he making those desperate, guttural noises. He blindly grabbed Victoria’s hand cream and slicked a hand with it. He grimaced. _My dick’s going to smell like roses_.

He reached down between their bodies and grabbed them together, rejoicing in the noises his partner made.

Later, he lay there sated, draped around and entangled with Spencer’s lithe body, and he drifted. A part of him was still thinking of Victoria, but it was small and smothered by feelings of homecoming.

He fell asleep to the twin sounds of rain and Spencer’s soft breathing.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Impressions of soft, fluttering kisses along his neck and back roused him, deft hands digging into his muscles loosening the knots. A fully dressed body straddled him. Cold metal bit into his wrists. He jumped awake, and the body rolled off him.

He was handcuffed, the linking chain looped through the bed head. Spencer laid a respectable distance from him on the bed, watching his movements with a considering, apologetic stare.

A cold weight settled in his gut as the pieces fell into place. Dark hair—same fucking haircut for Christ’s sake. He had been played, toyed with by a two-bit conman with pretty features. He felt a sudden empathy for a house of cards, except a house of fucking cards wasn’t expected to have a detective’s brain. How could he be so willfully blind? Color rose high in his cheeks with the rising bile of self-hatred— he was meant to be a god-damned _detective_.

The name—what had he called himself? Spencer, TT Spenstar, with an extra T for extra Talent.

“Spencer’s not even your real name,” he ground out, rolling onto his side to face the criminal, mindful of the pull of the handcuffs.

A flicker of surprise passed over the man’s features. “I didn’t say that.”

He wasn’t stupid enough to think Despereaux actually gave him a real name. What was it he had called his co-conspirator? Shane? No, Sean.

“So you’re Despereaux’s partner.” A shrug. “Does he send you to fuck all the cops on his tail?”

For a moment, Carlton was sure Spencer was either going to hit him or recoil. As it was, he sat up, hands gripping a pillow to his lap, and answered rapid-fire. “As Pierre would say, we have a ‘mutually beneficial relationship.’”

He took in a deep breath. In that moment he was reminded how much he genuinely _liked_ the kid. No wonder he had been so easily played. “I demand that you uncuff me.”

Spencer ignored the request, stood and held up a package. “Pierre was rather eager to forge your handwriting. I think he was a tad jealous. Which makes you Humphrey Bogart, by the way.”

“Forge my--?!”

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Lassie. I wasn’t lying last night; I do like you. In another universe, maybe things could be different.” Spencer stumbled to the doorway and paused over the threshold.

“Different?” he croaked, straining against the cuffs, testing the strength of the wood, his own resolve crumbling into sawdust.

“Where I don’t have to say goodbye,” Spencer whispered, words barely reaching the detective. Carlton wondered if he was meant to hear them at all.

Spencer tossed the handcuff's key on the floor and walked away.

 

An impressive pulley system later, Carlton was free and he stood, eyebrows drawn in consternation.

Spencer left a package.

' _Some info you need to be really_ really _careful on_ ,' it read. _'Rodriguez is compromised (I’ve always wanted to say that!). His daughter is being held at this address. Follow these instructions to the letter, and then go meet me and Despereaux at the SAM. h & k’s, S'_

Carlton sat on the edge of the bed and read the files. The first few pages were instructions, as promised. The next set of documents was a report on Keogh’s death, in a facsimile of his own penmanship. There were surveillance photos of Keoghs apartment, photocopies of evidence, while the report detailed a spider web of Yin Gang workings that led to one event: the Keogh Murder.

A report like this could skyrocket his career. And Spencer had handed it to him on a plate.

The rest of the documents gave him a chill though. They outlined a gang influence throughout the USA, with political sabotage, hostage keeping and blackmail. It was too unbelievable, too much of a conspiracy for his liking. But the report and the instructions…

At this stage, what did he really have to lose?

 

* * *

 

> _Your codename is Bootle Bumtrinket._
> 
> _First: ring the station and ask for a few hours— but first, ask to speak to Vera, if you aren’t already. Say you need some sleep. Guilt trip her if you have to. She’ll recommend some alternate medication._
> 
> _Ok—fine, Despereaux did take Manet’s Haystacks in golden light with weird brushstrokes last night, or whatever. Delegate other officers to do whatever work you were to do today._
> 
> _Take the bus which leaves at 9, get off after 7 stops._
> 
> _There’s a Baskin Robbins on the right. Slip in and grab an ice cream. They have a new flavor, Pineapple Passionberry._
> 
> _Take a left on the main intersection. Thirty feet down. Pharmacy is on the right._
> 
> _Stop, look all policemanly._
> 
> _Barking dog on left. Investsigate, shake your head a little, then use your Lassie powers to calm the beast._

 

A freaking Doberman. It was attached to some sort of choker leash.

 

> _Through a gap in the gate’s palings you will notice some AK-47s._

 

Probable cause. Shit.

 

> _Proceed with caution. They_ shouldn’t _have people attached. Now that you believe me, go and call dispatch. But shhhh! Be quiet! As SOON as you do so, get inside!_

 

Name, location, weapons sighted. Dangerous dog at entrance. He climbed the fence and ran, not trusting the dog’s tethered range.

 

> _The girl is being held somewhere in this building. Find her before it is too late! :O_
> 
>  

He broke down door, weapon drawn. A whimper drew his attention and he headed towards it. Tied to a chair was a little girl no more than eight. On her small frame she wore a torn white dress and muddy tear-tracks on her cheeks. Beside her was a young woman, either her sister or nanny, decomposing on the floor. A shout and the sound of weapon loading came from the floor above him.

 

> _Get her and get out. Run, if you have to. I’m giving you five minutes to do all this. Don’t let me down. Now, there’s a bus stopping outside the old bookstore. Take it. If at all possible, wait until it’s leaving then jump on it like Donat and the spy in The 39 Steps._
> 
>  

The bus’ doors closed. He hoisted the girl into his arms ran for the bus, flashing his badge to the driver. He held her to his chest as they sat down, the girl crying, strange relief and pain in her tears.

 

> _Get her back to the police station._

 

“Dad!”

“Katy?!”

 

> _Don’t mention me._

 

Report. The new head detective pulling him aside.

>  
> 
> _Take all the credit, become a hero!_

 

A meeting was called. The situation explained. Gang had taken girl as a bargaining chip. Rodriguez’s resignation.

A million handshakes.

Pure luck, they called it. A miracle. It felt more like a whirlwind.

 

> _Seriously dude, don’t mention me or Despereaux.'_

 

By the time he got back to his desk, a memo awaited him. He looked at it, a knife twisting in his gut: the last painting was stolen.

 

 

* * *

 

The man was charismatic; he had recognized that from the first. But until now, he hadn’t realized quite how handsome Spencer was. His hair had been cut shorter, styled into something more sophisticated; he wore an expensive tuxedo, clearly tailored by the way it fit him like an extension of his own body as he moved. His expression as he conversed with the patrons was still bright and engaging, youthful. But then he turned and looked straight into Carlton’s eyes with an intense gleam.

Carlton felt frozen as the man sauntered up to him wearing a thoroughly _adult_ expression.

“Lassie.”

Something clicked. “You're a distraction.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rose, and it looked like he wanted to laugh. “I do try,” he said, voice low.

“I should arrest you right here. Coming back to the gallery where your partner stole a Seurat. Brave, but foolish,” he growled.

Spencer slid closer, “You think I’m an accessory?”

Carlton forced a curt nod, distracted by how hot the room felt. How fast his heart was beating. Spencer looked into his eyes, expression uncharacteristically serious.

“I’m not the one you should be worried about. If I…” the man broke off and looked away. “Just be _careful_ , Lassie. Not just for yourself. Something’s coming, something big. You can join me? We can protect you.”

“Your big conspiracy theory. Sure. You listen here: I will catch you and Despereaux,” he stated darkly. “And you will go to prison.” He really should get his handcuffs out. His hands were frozen.

Spencer’s were not frozen, and one hand snaked up and slid under the knot of his tie. Carlton’s eyes slid shut of their own accord as Spencer’s breath ghosted over his lips.

“Catch me if you can,” he whispered, and then he was kissing him. The kiss was gentle, yet electric. Warm, soft lips captured his, and he kissed back, feeling something bloom in his chest like homecoming.

Then he was alone. He opened his eyes and looked around, stomach bottoming out, throat suddenly tight. Spencer was nowhere to be seen. People in posh clothes milled about the gallery floor, laughing, drinking and generally acting as if nothing had changed.

Drawing in a breath that was far too shaky, he straightened his tie and clothes, freezing as his hands felt a bulge in his jacket pocket. It crushed slightly like rolled up paper and with a last look around, he slipped into a nearby supply closet to examine it.

The roll turned out to be film negatives, notes, blueprints and classified files. A yellow post-it note in the shape of a pineapple caught his eye. It read:

 

> _Some clues to find me._
> 
> _H + K,_
> 
> _S_

**Author's Note:**

> All the paintings mentioned in this story exist. They were chosen as they are some of my favourite works or artists, and I have a soft spot for the Impressionists, Modernists, and the Post-modern era. In all seriousness, go check them out; even today they are gorgeous. Especially Degas. None of them have been stolen, and to my knowledge none of them are, or ever have been, housed in Seattle. Monet and Manet are purposefully used interchangeably by Shawn and Lassiter, and a few other artists are jumbled at times in homage to the Psych Episode "Extradition, British Colombia", wherein Shawn does much the same thing. 
> 
> There are a few other references to Psych canon, despite this being AU, so I'll briefly list them:  
> \- Lassiter's much younger sister was introduced in "Dead Bear Walking". He would read her the Miranda Rights as a bedtime story. We meet Lassiter's wife, Victoria, in "Tuesday the 17th", though she's mentioned many times throughout the season. Her father, Irving Parker, is seen in "Dis-lodged"  
> \- "Extradition, British Colombia" is referenced several times, and the line "Since I’ve taken the time to find you, please don’t spoil it with rudeness" was unceremoniously reproduced. I'm sorry.  
> \- The way Lassiter takes his coffee is revealed in "9 Lives". His love of Westerns comes across in several episodes, perhaps most notably in "This Episode Sucks"  
> \- The strange guitar shaped instrument in the newspaper clipping is a mandolin. Shawn plays the mandolin. Don't ask me what episode, I can't recall. If anyone knows, drop me a line. I think I was watching season seven at the time? James Roday apparently plays one, too.  
> \- Nicknames are appropriated: Spenstar(r) from "American Duos", Emilio Estevez Etht-eh-vez from "Any Given Friday Night at 10pm, 9pm Central", and Buttersnaps from "You Can't Handle This Episode"  
> \- Yin is of course from the Yin and Yang episodes "Mr Yin Presents", "Yang 3 in 2D" and "An Evening with Mr Yang"  
> \- The pilot mentions that Shawn has had 57 jobs since High School, hence his many occupations alluded to here. Also, pre-series, Shawn and Gus have been to the Mexican border, twice. It was not mentioned whether he ever sold Mexican Jumping Beans, though.  
> \- All the pineapples. Well. Yellow. (Black Books, anyone?)  
> \- While not Psych, anyone who did not get the Dread Pirate Roberts reference needs to reassess their cultural integrity. 
> 
> And that's it for now, folks! Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
